


light me up before i go

by orphan_account



Series: sterek getting stoned [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hotboxing, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:12:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come late April, the sun will grow warm while the air is still cool, and there will be just enough greenery for Stiles to hide the Jeep somewhere off the beaten path in the Beacon Hills Preserve, tucked away from the world in a safe little space where he and Derek can get high.</p>
            </blockquote>





	light me up before i go

**Author's Note:**

> I promised this like ten days ago. I'm really, really shy about writing porn, though, so y'all are getting it now. While this is a direct follow up to [this](http://breenwolf.tumblr.com/post/48562217805/derek-laughs-with-his-head-bowed-his-thumb-and) piece that I posted to tumblr, you don't have to read that to understand what's going on here. This is dedicated to tumblr user entertainme720 just like I promised xoxo.

Stiles has never spent much time in the back seat of the Jeep - never needs to, really -  so every time he crawls back there he starts to feel a little anxious. Like when you have a comfy place on the couch, but you stand up to get something from the kitchen, and when you come back you sit down on the chair thinking that’s where you were sitting before. It fucks with his perspective, and it kind of overwhelms him.

Once, when Lydia was driving like a bat out of hell and Scott was bleeding out in Stiles's lap in the back seat, Stiles had joke-reflexed into the line, "There's so much room for activities!" and that pretty much sums up his opinion of the backseat of his Jeep.

There's so much _room_.

For _activities_.

"Okay, so, just," Stiles starts, his voice raspy.

He's dimly aware of the joint in Derek's hand - which is probably dangerously close to Stiles's ear - but that’s totally at the bottom of his list right now. So, there might be an open flame near his ear, sure, okay, but Stiles is _also_ about half an inch away from cracking his skull on the roof of his car, and he's got a knee between Derek Hale's thighs _._ Priorities.

He is resolutely not meeting Derek's eyes.

"Do I need to - " he mimes leaning back a little bit, gesturing for emphasis.

Derek jerks his chin. _No_. Stiles isn't making eye contact, but the skin stretched over Derek's collarbone is red and splotchy, stretching up his neck and probably onto his face. He focuses on those little red patches because if he doesn't focus on something he's probably going to pass out.

He wobbles a little bit, then, and Derek steadies him with a hand on his hip.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Peachy," Stiles chokes out. "Can we just - "

Derek's three steps ahead of him. He still has one hand curled around Stiles's hip when he brings the joint to his mouth, and he hesitates a little before the paper touches his lips. He studies that little ember at the tip carefully; it’s even redder than Derek's neck.

Stiles swallows. He steels himself, glances up, and examines the cut of Derek's jaw, the bow of his mouth, the full expanse of his stubble. And it's - it's _fine_. He can handle this. He's, like, fairly confident that he can handle watching his friend take a hit. He's seen lots of friends take lots of hits - hits of all varieties, even, seeing as Stiles and his friends moonlight as a supernatural crime fighting brigade.

And, Jesus, it's _really_ hard to distract himself from the effect Derek has on him when Derek's jaw is doing that ticking thing again, that little muscle there working as he inhales off the joint.

"Oh my god," he mutters before he can stop himself. He hopes it sounds irritated, like he's concerned about how much smoke Derek is about to pass him.

He tries to catch Derek's eyes before he can stop himself - just to _see_ what they look like this close, in the middle of the afternoon, through a haze of smoke. Just to _see_. For _science_. But Derek's eyes are closed, his eyelashes soft against the sharp cut of his cheekbones. They're long, Stiles thinks idly. A little girly, even.

He wants to touch them, which is creepy. He doesn't, which doesn't really make it _less_ creepy.

He leans back a little, though his knee is still firmly in place between Derek's thighs, and his body lifts just enough that the top of his head grazes against the metal of the roof. Derek must hear it, because he opens his eyes and stops inhaling.

Whatever bravery Stiles felt a moment ago and any desire he had to meet Derek's eyes have dissolved. His gaze flickers down to Derek's mouth; he tries not to be obvious about it. Or creepy. He's probably both.

He shifts again, feeling overheated. His palms are definitely sweating which is kind of embarrassing. To be fair, though, he _always_ has clammy hands these days - nothing, like, gross, but you know. It’s a side effect of living a badass superhero life, right?

Stiles says, "Any time now," because he thinks that's what he _should_ say – he should be irritated and impatient and all that, as par the course. It comes out hesitant, though, a little breathy.

He starts to say something else, this time a little braver, but Derek moves his hand from Stiles's hip, and Stiles goes unsteady, flailing until he can catch himself with his right hand against the door. He says, "Well, _damm_ it," because being frustrated is better than being embarrassed.

Derek doesn’t seem to notice or care about any of that, though. He cups the back of Stiles’s neck firmly and draws him in, and Stiles says, "Oh my god," as he sways forward. He thinks _I'm not going to survive this,_ wildly. He thinks, _I've survived Peter Hale, Gerard Argent, werelizard Jackson, Crazy Matt, the Alpha Pack, the witch coven, Peter Hale Redux, harpies, and the goddamn_ **Ghost** _of Peter Hale - only to die because Derek Hale’s gonna blow some smoke in my mouth._

But then Derek thumbs Stiles’s mouth open with just a little bit of pressure against Stiles’s bottom lip, and Stiles challenges _anyone_ to survive that - challenges them to keep breathing when Derek leans forward just a little bit, his eyes clear and focused - challenges them to keep their heart pumping steadily when Derek _meets their eyes_ for a split second -

And then just _blows,_ releasing the smoke from his lungs in a breath against Stiles’s parted mouth.

Running off instinct and barely anything more, Stiles inhales as Derek exhales. It feels like it takes forever. It probably takes twenty seconds.

"Got it?" Derek eventually asks, his voice quiet even in the confined space of the Jeep.

At some point, Stiles closed his eyes. He opens them now and nods, feeling the smoke scratching at his lungs as he holds his breath. He clenches his jaw and counts down from ten before letting it go.

Then he shifts, just a change of his weight distribution from his left knee to his right, and the vinyl of the backseat sticks tackily to his jeans. The Jeep feels like a sauna, the sun overhead breaking through the trees and turning it into a goddamn greenhouse or something. There’s dust in the air – dust and smoke in the haze of the afternoon sunshine that’s seeped into their little hideaway in the middle of the forest.

"My turn," Stiles says, pulling the joint out of Derek's hand.

He's high, now - no doubt about it. His lips are dry, and he keeps wetting them and worrying at them with his teeth. He's not really a compulsive lip-biter most of the time, but smoking up always makes his mouth feel _huge_ and _heavy_ and impossible to ignore – a stark contrast to how fuzzy and light he feels otherwise.

Derek puts one of his hands next to Stiles's knee - the one not wedged between Derek's thighs - and he folds his other arm behind his head. He stares up at Stiles, blinking drowsily. The corner of his mouth is ticked up – an easy little half-smile that Stiles has grown secretly fond of despite his best efforts. So Derek's high, too.

Which is - huh - weirdly gratifying.

"I'm surprised you've never done that before," Derek remarks vaguely, his eyes fixed on something beyond Stiles's shoulder, his attention split.

"Yeah, well," Stiles grumbles as he fumbles over the lighter, trying to catch the striker wheel with his thumb.

 _Not a lot of people are eager to put their mouth that close to mine_ , he thinks. He's high enough that it's not a sad, bitter thought. It's just a - a _fact_. A fact of his life. He gets the flint to light.

He puts the joint to his lips, lights the end of it with one hand cupped around the flame to keep it away from Derek’s eyebrows, and inhales. When he pulls off, that little red glow is practically touching his finger; he purses his lips to keep the smoke inside while he holds the joint up in front of Derek in a silent gesture - _Are you gonna want more of this_?

Derek jerks his chin again - _No_.

Stiles nods and leans back, twisting his body this way and that until he can reach what he wants. He nails the angle on twist number three, stamps the joint out in the cup holder, drops it there, and turns back to Derek.

He'd hesitate, but he's already feeling dizzy from holding his breath _this_ long, so he doesn't think anything of it when he cups Derek's face and tips it back. Derek's mouth is already open - probably to say something or maybe because he knew what was coming. When Stiles exhales, Derek inhales.

Derek and Stiles make a good team - no one will deny that anymore, not even Derek. They're good at getting out of life-threatening situations; they're good at keeping Scott alive; they're good at bickering and arguing and clawing themselves out of the holes they dig. They're good at misreading basic cooking instructions, and they're good at speedy price comparisons in the grocery store. They're good at reading one another, at knowing what they're both trying to communicate even when words aren't being used.

They're good at this, too, Stiles thinks. At, like, _breathing_ and shit. _Together_.

He laughs at himself - how can he not? He's nineteen years old, in the backseat of his Jeep, and ninety percent of the people in his life are werewolves. He's possibly the most metacognizant person on the face of the planet, and yet _somehow_ he's managed to dodge all the feelings Derek Hale dredges up for him for the better part of three years.

He says, now, with his eyes closed and Derek's mouth about an inch and a half away, "It freaks me out that I’m as into you as I am."

Derek says, "Yeah," and Stiles can feel smoke against his mouth. He laughs again, short and clipped. He sways forward once more, this time with intent, and presses his lips to Derek’s.

They’re both a little slow, a little sloppy, but Derek’s mouth is soft. He tastes like weed, mostly, but also like something else Stiles can’t quite place. Stiles relaxes against him slowly, sitting back on his haunches more to straddle Derek’s thigh more intimately. It’s almost sweet, he thinks through his daze. He takes his hand off the door and takes Derek’s face between his open palms. His rubs gentle circles into the skin of Derek’s cheeks with his thumbs, thoughtlessly affectionate.

It’s just kissing - slow, dragging, lip to lip kissing that’s as warm as the sunny afternoon all around them.

Derek still has an arm curled back, a hand tucked behind his head, even as he slides an open palm over Stiles’s knee, over his thigh. He drums his fingers mindlessly against Stiles’s jeans, and Stiles pulls away for a second to press his forehead to Derek’s temple and laugh dryly – stupidly happy.

Derek jerks his chin, comes off that arm tucked behind his head, and catches Stiles’s chin in his hand to pull him into another kiss

And, well, Stiles isn’t going to stop him.

This time, it doesn’t stay quite so slow. Derek’s mouth is more insistent, and Stiles is eager and a little shameless as he falls into Derek all the way, all of his hesitation gone at once. It’s hard to try and pace himself when Derek’s trying to kiss the hell out him, catching Stiles’s bottom lip with his teeth and pulling him close by wrapping his arms around Stiles’s body and curving upwards into the arc of Stiles’s body. It’s too easy to reciprocate.

And maybe if he were sober, Stiles would kind of be freaking out about this. All, _oh my god, oh my god, oh my god what?_ as he tends to get when things he’s not expecting to happen, happen – but he’s not really sober at all. He’s conscious enough, aware of himself, but less anxious, less wired, less concerned about the details and much more concerned with the big picture.

Presently, the big picture is that Derek wants him – wants Stiles a _lot_ actually – and that suits Stiles just fine. He’s alright with pulling Derek’s hair, feeling the softness of it and marveling a little that _this asshole_ can – what? – just throw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and forgo the usual hair routine and _still_ be the most devastating sort of person to look at?

Stiles pulls his hair a little rougher thinking about it, and Derek makes a low noise in the back of his throat – he’s got fond exasperation down to _syllabics_ at this point. It makes Stiles’s chest tighten; he’s too high to evaluate what that could mean or what it probably says about him, thankfully.

And Derek  doesn’t give him much of a chance to second guess, either. He reels Stiles in further with his hand between Stiles’s shoulder blades and the other cradling the back of Stiles’s head, like there’s any hope of them being closer together when Stiles is straddling Derek’s thigh and their torsos are mashed together as they make out.

The best thing about being high is probably the way Stiles manages to feel everything and _nothing_ all at once. He can feel the way Derek sucks on his tongue, scratches his fingernails against his scalp, and arches his body in tiny increments, forward and back – almost feline; he can feel it, but he feels distant from it, like a spectator watching everything unravel from a distance.

He thinks making out with Derek while sober would probably a whole different ballgame; then he files that away for later because _this_ is good for now – this is perfect.

He’s just on his way to putting his hands on Derek’s shoulders - his biceps, mostly because, uh, _yeah_ \- when the entire world does a barrel roll. It _definitely_ says a lot about his life that Stiles’s immediate reaction is _something evil has found us and it’s flipped my Jeep, where’s my gun?_

It also says a lot about him that his immediate reaction is to hold on tighter to Derek and pull him close, like _Stiles_ is going to be the one to keep _Derek_ safe if the two-ton Jeep has been thrown.

But the car hasn’t been flipped at all. Derek’s just hoisted Stiles up and laid him out against the sticky vinyl of the backseat, and he’s nosing under Stiles’s jaw, dragging his chin and stubble up the front of Stiles’s throat – to which Stiles immediately gives in with a groan as he lets his head roll back. He could build _cities_ made entirely of the fantasies he’s had involving stubble burn, but he’s too blissed out and high to bother comparing those to the reality. He’s sure this is better, anyway.

“Oh my god,” he says when he feels Derek’s teeth at the base of his throat. His voice cracks. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my actual, shitting god.”

Derek hums agreeably into Stiles’s neck.

Stiles screws his eyes shut and sucks in deep, slow breaths, like he’s trying to right the world through breathing exercises.

“Derek,” he says, dazed. Derek pulls his mouth from Stiles’s collarbone but stays quiet as he considers him in return. “C’mere.”

Derek leans forward, and he kisses Stiles as slow and sure as the first time their mouths touched a little while ago – just a slow, sweet drag of their lips together. Stiles opens his eyes while Derek’s are still closed; he can’t help but press his thumb to those girly eyelashes. Derek cracks his eyes at that, and their faces are so close together that he looks like a cyclops.

Stiles snorts to cover up the surge of affection he feels.

“Okay, I’m good,” he assures him. “Go back to what you were doing before – that was nice.”

“Bossy,” Derek quips, but he’s already leaning back down and adjusting his body again.

Stiles squints at him and bends his knee – the one between Derek’s leg and the back seat since now _Derek’s_ the one with a knee between _Stiles’s_ legs – and asks, “Is that doing it for you?”

Derek looks up; he catches and holds Stiles’s gaze. “Yeah,” he says.

“Oh,” Stiles murmurs. “Uh, that’s good.”

Derek rolls his eyes and drags his teeth along the collar of Stiles’s v-neck, against the exposed skin there. Stiles inhales sharply and arches up into it without thinking about it, without thinking of what that must look like or say about him. One of his arms is pinned between his side and the back of the seat, so he dislodges it and runs his fingers up Derek’s arms, over his shoulders, then back down again – over and over.

Derek gets goosebumps in the hot, smoky Jeep, and Stiles rubs them away with the open palm of his hand, saying, “Sorry, sorry,” in a quiet voice when Derek grumbles about it into Stiles’s t-shirt.

“I’m,” Derek says in a low voice, the word pressed into Stiles’s skin. “I can’t –” He sounds lost, maybe mystified.

Stiles knows the feeling. He can’t make himself focus – his mind is slow and sleepy, but his body feels electric. He hooks an arm over Derek’s shoulders, behind his neck, and reaches for Derek’s hand. He can feel Derek’s body shift as he moves his weight onto one elbow, and Stiles urges his hand up.

“Maybe – like this?” he says, guiding Derek’s hand underneath his shirt. He arches into the touch immediately, sighing. “Yeah, that. Do – that.” Derek’s hand is warm though his touch is hesitant, and his teeth catch Stiles’s collarbone as he sucks in a breath.

“I’ve wanted to,” he swallows, and Stiles brushes his thumb against the hair along the nape of Derek’s neck. “For - a while,” Derek finishes.

“I think you missed a verb somewhere in there.”

Derek just pushes Stiles’s shirt up until it gets caught under his arms; Stiles leaves it there, doesn’t bother to lift his arms. He doesn’t have much room, anyway. Not without embarrassing himself.

“I missed this,” he blurts out, stupidly. “Well,” he corrects, laughing, “not _this_ , since this is the first time we’re doing _this_ this, but – well, uh – you. I missed you. At school.”

Derek nips at Stiles’s sternum and sucks at the skin there in a way that’s just this side of painful. Stiles arches into it and stills. His head is tilted far enough back that he can see the trees overhead through the window, swaying in a breeze. It’s probably nice and cool outside, everything warmed from the sun but not quite warm enough to burn; in contrast, the Jeep is sweltering.

His breath comes in shuttering gasps as Derek kisses down his stomach. It’s not a straight path – Derek’s lips wander a few times to Stiles’s sides, making him squirm and kick though Derek is a wall of muscle and determination against him. Derek seems calm; Stiles feels wired.

It occurs to Stiles then that he’s hard, and it startles a laugh out of him – bright and giddy. Derek turns his head up, his chin propped on the soft skin just beneath Stiles’s belly button, and does something questioning with his eyebrows.

“What,” he asks flatly, apparently unimpressed.

Stiles’s reply is simply to rock his hips up, grinding himself against Derek’s upper body shamelessly. He says, “Nothing,” as coyly as he can manage.

Derek huffs and pushes up to kiss Stiles again, his mouth wet and open. It’s sloppy because they both reach for the button on Stiles’s jeans at the same time, their knuckles knocking, and Stiles laughs again – breathless, this time; Derek just groans and presses closer. Stiles thinks _Oh_ , then, because Derek’s hard, too.

“I want,” Stiles tries, his mouth working over the words as his brain attempts to string  a coherent sentence together.

He thumbs open his jeans and leaves Derek to the rest of that so Stiles can press at the waistline of Derek’s sweatpants - they’re loose and give easily, which is satisfying. Derek hisses at the sensation, tenses for a long moment, then goes limp, unsurprisingly heavy  pressed down against Stiles. Then his hands are suddenly everywhere, fast in ways that Stiles’s brain can’t really comprehend - up Stiles’s sides, across the lines of his ribs, brushing over his shoulders, then back down to yank at the v-opening of Stiles’s unfastened pants.

“I need to touch you,” Derek says sharply, with more heat than he’s managed to scrounge up since Stiles showed up on his doorstep. It’s about time, Stiles thinks absently. He’s been feeling hot since he decided he was going to make the two hour drive back home for the weekend on the small hope that Derek would get high with him in honor of 4/20.

“Do it, then,” Stiles challenges, catching one of Derek’s hands as it starts to head up again, to parts of Stiles’s body that he knows better, that are less intimate. Stiles is having none of that and catches that hand quickly to push it down again, wriggling as best he can in the cramped backseat to get as much of his jeans out of the way as possible. He doesn’t need much, really, just an inch or two to make himself comfortable.

And an inch or two is all Derek gives him before his hand is on Stiles’s dick, having been guided there by Stiles and given permission in just about every way other than obtaining notarized documentation. Stiles considers that: a piece of paper with ornate writing on it saying _I, Stiles Stilinski, grant thee, Derek Hale, permission to take my dong in hand and deliver me orgasms_.

He laughs wildly at the thought, but Derek curls his fingers around his dick the next moment, and suddenly Stiles can’t remember what was so funny. The world is instantly reduced to the sensation of a hand – Derek’s hand – on his dick. The car might be pushing ninety degrees at this point, and Stiles thinks there _might_ be a sunny outside world beyond this tiny little backseat of theirs, but that’s pretty much the extent of his understanding of things that aren’t sex.

Ridiculously, he thinks about how smooth Derek’s hand is. His fingers are soft, his palm warmer than even the air they’re sharing. Stiles moans, clings to the soft fabric of Derek’s shirt with a white-knuckled grip. He squeezes his eyes tight against the light filtering through the window over his head, and suddenly – just like that – he’s talking.

“ _Please_ , Jesus _Christ_ , Derek,” he hisses, his voice gruff and low. With every breath he takes he drags in some of the remaining smoke in the Jeep, and it burns in the best sort of way. So does Derek’s hand. “I want to come – you need to make me, please – Jesus.” He pulls Derek by the collar of his shirt to kiss him, sloppy and open-mouthed and wet. He just wants to shut himself up. He doesn’t want to say _I’ve wanted you to make me come forever,_ so he kisses Derek instead.

Derek responds hungrily, his slow pulls on Stiles’s cock stalling for a heartbeat, his fingers flexing almost imperceptibly. He’s sweating, which Stiles only realizes when he tastes the saltiness of Derek’s upper lip. It’s – _fuck_ , that’s unbelievably hot.

“Shit,” he says suddenly. 

He yanks his head back and tries to find the words to apologize for getting lost – but they don’t come.. He’ll blame it on the high, later, when he has time to make any excuses he needs to make for how he’s falling all over himself now, getting caught up in Derek’s touch and kisses and fucking _sweat_. “Sorry,” he mutters, a little ashamed now that he remembers he was trying to get _Derek’s_ cock in hand earlier – had even pushed his pants off for it!. Their bodies are pressed so tightly together that he can’t see Derek’s cock  now, no matter which way he may lean and squirm from beneath Derek.

He wants to touch Derek, too, wants to feel the thrum of his body and the way his body behaves right before Derek comes. But Derek just pushes closer, his t-shirt soft against Stiles’s chest, and when he does that Stiles can’t _reach_. He makes an unhappy sound, but Derek does something with his fucking _wrist_ , and Stiles has to stop to suck in a breath.

“ _Ho_ -ly fuck,” he breathes. “Again, please, God. Do that again.”

And Derek does – that tiny tick of his wrist right over the head of Stiles’s dick. It doesn’t make him see stars, but it’s pretty damn close.

Derek has most of his weight leaned dangerously away from the back of the seat; if he weren’t a preternaturally strong and graceful creature of the night, Stiles would maybe be concerned about his balance – and, when he remembers that Derek is high, too, he kind of does start to worry, but Derek is in complete control of his body, his movements careful and precise even though Stiles is close enough to _see_ his dilated pupils. He figures command of your body is something you’re either born with or something you’ll never obtain – and he’s settled in the latter camp for nearly two decades now, so.

He’s content to writhe against Derek, then, to let himself be taken away on his high and on the feeling of Derek’s smooth palm coming down over him again – and again – and again. Steady as breathing, each pull of his cock working Stiles a little closer to his breaking point. Whether he wants to rush over the edge or draw this out, savoring every heady moment of _this_ – Stiles can’t decide.

And there’s Derek, angled just slightly to the left above Stiles to allow his right hand room to work, his entire left side effectively pinning Stiles to the seat. And there’s Stiles, prone and pliant and gasping every so often, like each time Derek catches precum and spreads it over Stiles’s dick is a surprise. Maybe it is. It’s certainly not what he _expected_ when he drove into town (of course he had hoped, maybe – _maybe today’s the day_ ).

Stiles’s arms feel heavy when he curls them around Derek’s torso and claws the back of Derek’s shirt up, wanting to feel skin against skin even if it’s just Derek’s back against Stiles’s palms. Derek’s hot there, too, and Stiles trembles against the feel of him, a little overwhelmed with how badly he wants to take Derek apart, piece by piece.

He says, “If I don’t come in, like, thirty seconds,” – takes a long, shaking breath – “I’m literally going to _die_.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Derek murmurs absently, but his pace stays the same. His eyes are downcast, fixated on the rhythmic rolls of Stiles’s hips and the vision of his cock in Derek’s fist. His knee between Stiles’s thighs slips back a few inches, and they’re pressed all the closer together. Stiles groans.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles warns.

“Hm?” Derek asks – and because he’s an asshole, he rocks against Stiles and presses his dick against the outside of Stiles’s hip.

“Ohmygod,” Stiles exhales. He picks up his hands, trails his fingers feather-light down the dip of Derek’s lower back, and eventually grabs at Derek’s ass. “You _fucker_ ,” he accuses. “You – you fight _dirty_.”

Derek shudders against Stiles, and Stiles can _feel_ it through his grip. When he speaks, Derek’s voice is lower than Stiles has _ever_ heard it. “If you don’t like it,” he says, taunting and playful and _devastating_ , “I could stop.”

Stiles jerks his head and bites Derek’s chin _hard_. He says, “I will _kill_ you.” He thinks he might mean it.

Derek laughs, and the sound is jarring and amazing in the space of the Jeep. He laughs and rocks up against Stiles’s hip, brushing his cock against the skin and bone there, and the movement gives Stiles a better hold on his ass. Which is – uh, _yeah_.

Derek’s wrist does that thing again, and Stiles is startled by how close his orgasm is all of the sudden. He’d wanted it, demanded it not three minutes ago, but now he’s desperate to prolong this again. He opens his mouth, screws his eyes shut, and presses his face against Derek’s to speak right into his ear.

“After – I want to go back to your place,” he rushes to say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah – and I – I want to drag you up those _ridiculous_ stairs, and I want to push you down in your bed, and I want to fuck you.”

Derek hisses – either at Stiles’s words or because Stiles’s long fingers have drifted and brushed against the line of his ass, tracing their way along the tender flesh there, Stiles can’t be sure. Probably both. They kind of go hand and hand, really.

He tightens his grip on Stiles’s cock a fraction, and when the curl of his fist comes back down, it’s a faster pace: downup – pause – downup – pause. Stiles arches into it like a cat, grinding his hips up into the hold Derek has on him.

“Okay, I – I’m gonna,” he stammers, and he has to pull one hand away from Derek to press his fist to the door of the car, to keep himself from jerking against it when he comes (he doesn’t want to end this day with a concussion). Derek makes a disappointed noise, but Stiles presses the fingers of his other hand deeper – pushes the pads of his middle and forefinger against the rim of Derek’s hole because that’s all he has the leverage for at this angle – and Derek chokes on a noise in the back of his throat.

“Stiles,” he says.

“Oh, fuck _me_ ,” Stiles gasps.

Derek turns his wrist and rocks his hips, and Stiles comes with a shout. His head snaps back against his wrist, and all the muscles between his neck and calves go rigid for one long, sharp moment – then they release all at once, and he’s left warm and loose and gasping for breath against the sticky vinyl of his backseat, his fingers still pressed as hard against Derek as he can manage – a promise, he thinks, for later.

Derek comes maybe half a minute after that – his orgasm a quieter affair than Stiles’s – and his come hits Stiles hip, mostly, though some gets on the seat and some lands on the side of Stiles’s ribs, those faint lines beneath his skin .

They’re still for a while after that – both of them breathing raggedly as they stare through half-lidded eyes at each other, feeling the sweat that’s collected on their bodies. They stay that way until Derek’s arm quivers, and, before he can realize what’s happening, his elbow gives out and he topples over into the space between the backseat and the front seats.

Stiles cackles.

 

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Derek is still laid out flat in the space between the seats, and Stiles is still on his back up in the back seat, but Stiles’s right arm is draped over the edge and his fingers are carding through Derek’s dark, sweat-matted hair lazily while Derek kicks at the soft frame of the back door absentmindedly, both of them starting to come down from their high in small steps.

“Gentle on the Jeep, man,” Stiles chides half-heartedly.

Derek snorts.

Stiles clears his throat and says, “I totally meant what I said earlier. Just so you know.”

Derek is quiet for a while before he asks, in a soft, distant voice, “Which part?”

“Um.” Stiles tries to think back to all the things he said and finds he can’t totally distinguish between the things he actually said, the things he wanted to say, and the half dozen things he always thought he’d say if given this opportunity. Finally, he says, “All of it, I guess. But I was _specifically_ talking about the fucking you part.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “Good.”

Stiles grins and laughs through his nose. “Good,” he echoes. “Glad we’re on the same page there.”

“I’m hungry,” Derek tells him. “Think your plans for that can wait until we _eat_?”

“Oh man,” Stiles groans longingly. “ _Food_. I totally forgotfood _existed_. Yeah – holy shit, _yes_. Like, _so_ much food, too. I want to buy out _an entire_ Taco Bell right now.”

“And maybe a nap,” Derek suggests. He yawns, too, and it’s a soft, snuffling sort of sound as he shifts against the hard floor.

Stiles considers it. “I could probably go for a nap.”

The sun is setting outside, so the sky above is a much less saturated blue than it was when they first drove out here, but the Jeep is still warm – and it still smells like weed and sex and that smell that has always been a part of the metal and vinyl and canvas that says _Jeep_. They’re parked in the middle of the Preserve – off road, where no one’s likely to find them. Certainly no one will be looking. It’s maybe quarter ‘til six, and there’s a cool spring night stretching out in front of them.

So Stiles smiles, throws his left arm over his eyes, and lets himself drift off to the sound of Derek’s slow and steady breaths. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Cristine](http://mccalled.tumblr.com) for getting me through this. Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://breenwolf.tumblr.com) sometime.


End file.
